But I'll try to tell you the rest. The firemen and the
volunteers--particularly the chauffeur and stablemen from
Knowltop--worked all night in an absolute frenzy. Our newest
negro cook, who is a heroine in her own right, went out and
started the laundry fire and made up a boilerful of coffee. It
was her own idea. The non-combatants served it to the firemen
when they relieved one another for a few minutes' rest, and it
helped.

We got the remainder of the children off to various
hospitable houses, except the older boys, who worked all night as
well as any one. It was absolutely inspiring to see the way this
entire township turned out and helped. People who haven't
appeared to know that the asylum existed came in the middle of
the night and put their whole houses at our disposal. They took
the children in, gave them hot baths and hot soup, and tucked
them into bed. And so far as I can make out, not one of my one
hundred and seven chicks is any the worse for hopping about on
drenched floors in their bare feet, not even the whooping cough
cases.

It was broad daylight before the fire was sufficiently under
control to let us know just what we had saved. I will report
that my wing is entirely intact, though a little smoky, and the
main corridor is pretty nearly all right up to the center
staircase; after that everything is charred and drenched. The
east wing is a blackened, roofless shell. Your hated Ward F,
dear Judy, is gone forever. I wish that you could obliterate it
from your mind as absolutely as it is obliterated from the
earth. Both in substance and in spirit the old John Grier